


The Thane Bride

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: AU, Awkward Boners, Batshittery, Crack, Crossover, M/M, Marriage, Masturbation, Resolved Sexual Tension, The Princess Bride References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver Hawke is thane to the Jarl of Whiterun, keeping house at Heljarchen while his sister the Dragonborn is off saving Tamriel. It's completely unfair that his housecarl Cullen is so damned beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thane Bride

**Author's Note:**

> A Skyrim/DA2 crossover inspired by the "Hearthfire" DLC of Skyrim, with a smidge or two of "The Princess Bride" thrown in. Because crack.

     It wasn't Cyrodil, that was for bloody sure.  Too cold.  Too far from any parts of the Empire that mattered.  Too full of bears and wolves and people who smelled like bears and wolves -- and not enough dogs.  How, by the Nine, could a land this big and wild have only a handful of dogs?  Bloody criminal, that was.  And instead, dragons everywhere.  How did _that_ even work?

     But they were here, because Cyrodil was lousy with Thalmor and that meant it wasn't a very good place to live anymore, especially not when your family name was secretly _Septim_ because some emperor waybackwhen couldn't keep it in his pants, Carver's mum had tried to teach him the family history but that was the part he remembered between naps and daydreaming, and so anyway that was why they'd moved here to this land of bear-people and dragon-dogs and endless, ridiculous snow.  Except what sodding good had _that_ done when his big sister had suddenly started offing dragons and eating their souls, which meant the Thalmor were after them again -- only now the fights all took place in the bloody cold and with wolves and bears _too_? 

     Only it _had_ been good for them, sort of, because if nothing else there was lots of work in Skyrim -- so much that Carver had earned himself a thaneship with the jarl of whatever-this-patch-of-snow-was-called, and Bethany was working on becoming Archmage of another patch of snow up north, and Marian had _bought_ this patch of snow and they'd built a fine manor on it because there was fuck-all else to do with a patch of snow when you owned it, which at least made their mother happy except that nobody wanted to come out to the middle of nowhere for her parties.

     And really, it wasn't so bad.  All the snow was pretty, at least, when there weren't spiders or bears running across it to eat you.  There were _mountains_ , beautiful things; he couldn't get enough of looking at those.  And out here in the middle of nowhere at least they could see the Thalmor coming.  (And the giants, and the wolves, and the crazy Daedric mages, and the...)  They were wealthy now, with hirelings and everything, and he rather liked playing the farmer.  The cow never gave him any shit about looking out for his sisters, who plainly needed little looking-out-for, and the horse had kicked the last Thalmor to come at them in the head.  (Mother wouldn't let him officially name the mare Shitkicker, but that's what he called her when Mother wasn't around.)

     And also --

     Maybe it was just being out here in the arse end of nowhere, with nothing more to concern him than giant attacks and whether the chicken was too old to lay anymore, but... well.  There was one other thing about Skyrim that he liked, rather a lot.

     He stood out on the deck as evening set, ostensibly watching the northern lights unfold in iridescent bands across the sky.  Well, he really was looking at that; it was breathtaking.  But on the ground below, their steward was hard at work chopping wood.  He'd stripped to the waist to do it despite the rapidly-descending chill.  Sweat steamed off that weirdly pale Nord skin of his, the muscles flexing in a hard rhythm underneath.

     _It's not weird_ , part of Carver's mind chided, because the rest of his mind was going _Bloody Oblivion **look** at him_.  It wasn't weird that Cullen was only a few shades differentiated from the snow; it was weird that Carver wanted to _throw_ him on that snow, and lick every drop of salt off that skin.  _That_ was weird as all get-out.

     So there it was.  Manor in the middle of nowhere, mountains and dragons and lightshows in the sky, and sodding gorgeous northern barbarians to ogle in the downtimes.  Skyrim was bloody _perfect_ , as far as he was concerned.

     But frustrating.  Because, well, it would be _wrong_ of Carver to proposition the hold steward, who was also _the housecarl sworn to serve him_ , wouldn't it?  So he looked, and wished, and then curled up alone beneath his bearskins through the cold dark nights, because that was really all he could do.

     That, and one thing more.

     "Cullen," he called, and Steward Cullen set his axe and straightened, mopping his brow with one forearm and turning.  For a moment Carver forgot what he was going to say because Cullen had shifted to stand with arms akimbo, chest heaving, and it was probably just chance that the front of the man's homespun pants had tented a little.  A fellow's bits shifted about when he was doing work like that, yeah?  And a man's whole body got perked up when the blood was running hot; no reason other than that why Cullen should be half hard, and sweet Mara was that _all_ his cock?  How could --

     "What would you have of me, my thane?" Cullen prompted, and Carver jumped, flushing.

     "Uh, I'm having a bit of trouble with the, uh, the oven," he made himself say.  And it was true, of course; the oven's flue was stuck or something.  He'd made sure he had a real reason for every chore he set Cullen to, because otherwise he was just being an arse, wasn't he?  "When you finish with that, can you take a look at it?"

     Because there was nothing unethical about ordering your hireman and _sworn servant_ about so you could watch him move.  Nothing at all.

     Cullen said nothing for a moment, and Carver's stomach tightened.  Had he noticed Carver's mooning?  He was a hard man to read, with his naturally-mournful face and peaceable smile.  So often it seemed that he was just blissfully obvious, but then every now and again --

     "I cannot say that I know much of ovens," Cullen said, his smile momentarily self-deprecating, "but as you wish."

     -- every now and again, it seemed like he was saying something completely different whenever he said _as you wish_.

     "Th-thanks," Carver said, and chided himself for sounding like a callow boy.  "Y'know, ah, I can take over the wood-chopping, if you want."  That way he wouldn't feel quite so much the pervert, and also that way he could burn off some of the thoughts making his skin itch.

     There was plenty of wood chopped already, of course; Carver did a bit every morning as part of his warmup.  But Cullen had only looked down his long Nord nose at the woodpile and said in his grave way, _"Winters in the Pale are harder than you think, my thane; I'll add a bit more."_   Then he'd proceeded to double the pile's size, and seemed set on tripling it.  Carver certainly couldn't complain for his enthusiasm.

     "Perhaps that would be best," Cullen said, nodding to him.  So Carver shucked off the ugly nobleman's robe his mother insisted on him wearing about the house ( _I'm only a thane_ , he'd said, and she had sniffed and replied, _No, you are a **Septim**_ and that was that), rolled his shoulders to flex them up, and trotted down the steps to take Cullen's place.  Cullen moved readily aside and went over to a bench to mop off with a bit of rag, at which point Carver had to look away hard lest he grow jealous of the rag and lop off a toe in his distraction.

     He got started, and the rhythm of the exercise did sort of help.  _This_ for his sister, endlessly going off to root through fusty tombs or gab with rusty geezers on mountaintops.  _This_ for her calling the place "Heljarchen Hall"; what was the point of having a manor if half your family (well, Carver) couldn't pronounce its name?  _This_ for his other sister, who hadn't mentioned the Thalmor spy at the College in her letters; he'd had to hear about that through the rumor mill.  _This_ for the rumor mill, which had it that Bethany had slept with the fellow before having to kill him -- gah, he was going to kill _her_ , if so.  _This_ for his mother's nagging, and _this_ for the jarl who kept pestering Carver to go off and kill things, for who would keep the homestead safe if he did?  Well, Cullen was more than able, but it was the _principle_.  And _this_ for Cullen, because it was terribly unfair that a man who worked for him was so Mara-blessed beautiful, look at him just standing there half naked, watching Carver with those sodding _eyes_ \--

     -- wait.  Setting the axe, Carver stopped and straightened to catch his breath.  "Uh?"

     Cullen tossed the rag onto the bench and shouldered his shirt back on.  "You should use more of your legs, my lord, and less of your arms and back.  You're used to the sword, I know, but that will help you last longer."

     "Oh, ah -- "  He blinked.  "Last longer...?"

     "Yes.  If you will permit -- "  He came over and leaned in close, and it took everything Carver had not to move to meet him and tug at his hands and nuzzle at his lips and _fuck, no_.  Then he was distracted as Cullen put a hand on the axe-handle over Carver's, and the other hand pressed against the small of Carver's back, heavy and warm and _fuck! no!_

     "Chopping wood is not battle," Cullen said, gently.  "In battle you strike _hard_ to destroy quickly.  Here, what matters more is _staying power_.  You must _husband_ your strength, to _satisfy_ a Skyrim winter."  Cullen wasn't emphasizing any of the words.  Carver just heard them that way.  And Carver's mouth was completely dry and his thoughts were completely blank and was that how Cullen smelled?  Sweat and elves' ear and something else herby whose name he didn't know because he didn't sodding pay any attention to herbs?  Then Cullen let go of the axe and moved that hand to Carver's belly, pressing firmly with both hands; Carver jumped and tensed.  "Yes.  You must be strongest not in your limbs, but here."

     _Please don't let him notice how hard I just got_ , Carver thought, helplessly.  _Stendarr, Mara, anybody listening, fucking Alduin if you care, please don't let him look down._

     "Right," Carver made himself say, intelligently.  "Yeah."

     "Your back will thank you.  It's always best if you do things properly, yes?"

     _Do things properly._   Carver swallowed and nodded, no longer trusting himself to speak.  Cullen smiled and stepped away, then grabbed his tunic and headed into the house.

     After a very long time, and some discreet adjustment, Carver resumed work.  It went much more easily, as Cullen had said.

#

     That was how it always went, in fact.  Carver would ask Cullen to do something, Cullen would murmur _As you wish, my thane_ , and do it while Carver watched.  Then Carver, distracted by Cullen being randomly beautiful while working, would say or do something and make a fool of himself, and Cullen would come near and correct him with little touches and smiles and statements that sounded half innuendo and half marriage proposal.  Then he'd leave, and Carver would slink off to his bedroom to spend a few moments with his hand and an old sock. 

     (And then he washed the sock, because otherwise Cullen would see it when he did the laundry.)

     It had been like this for the whole summer, since Carver had been named thane and Cullen had come traipsing over the fields to say _I am your sword and your shield_.  And it had been like this throughout the autumn, after Carver had hired Cullen as steward and started paying him wages in a partial effort to assuage his conscience, and as Carver hunted and faffed about in the garden and went on supply trips to Whiterun and killed the occasional bear or wolf or giant.  (No dragons, thankfully.  Apparently Marian was taking care of those.)  The situation had continued as they finally got enough food laid in, and as the patches of snow spread into blankets of snow and Carver learned that Skyrim actually _could_ get colder.  He had begun to grow miserable with the knowledge that things would continue thus for the forseeable future.  But what else could he do?  Fire the man so he could fuck him?  And how did one fire a sworn servant, anyhow?

     It didn't help that he didn't want _just_ fucking.  Nine help him, but he _liked_ Cullen, and Cullen seemed to like him in turn.  They sparred together on many mornings, Cullen's sword-and-shield giving Carver's greatsword a solid challenge, and that was nice -- fast and hard and rough and exhilarating, enough of a substitute for sex to take his mind off it.  (For awhile.)  In the afternoons they worked together, and that was nice too -- Carver shoring up the house while Cullen kept the books and arranged messengers to carry orders to lumbermills and such.  The evenings were best of all, when Oriella played her lute soft and slow, and Mother sat nodding by the kitchen hearth with a book in her lap, and Marian (if she was around) was upstairs sleeping.  Then Carver and Cullen sat by the den fire, drinking mead and talking of inanities -- Carver's boyhood in Cyrodil, Cullen's in Solitude; Carver protecting Bethany from "weird types" who kept trying to recruit her for this vampire coven or that bunch of brigands; Cullen dabbling in the priesthood before finally concluding that he was too much a man of action for a purely monastic life.

     "But you," Cullen said to Carver.  It was late one night in the early winter, and they were in their cups -- or Carver was, anyhow.  He suspected Cullen wasn't even tipsy, though they'd gone through a whole cask's worth of mead between them.  "You are a marvel, my thane, you and your siblings.  In Skyrim for the merest moment, and you've gone from pennies to this."  He gestured around at the manor.

     "That's mostly my sister," Carver admitted.  Marian was off again, in Solstheim this time, which figured because she hated the cold even more than he did; he didn't expect to see her for at least three months.  "She was always the one my parents brought up to be great, being eldest and all, and I guess she's living up to it."

     "Perhaps.  But _you_ were the one made a thane."  Cullen nodded firmly toward him.

     "Only because I found that thing the jarl lost in -- "  He couldn't remember the name of the cave.  It had been full of brigands, anyway, like every bloody cave in this land.  "And I fetched that thing for that woman, and killed some bears for that other woman, and found that stuff for that fellow... anyway."

     Cullen shook his head, amused.  "And earned the jarl's trust, my thane; he is not an easy man to impress.  Your sister, _the Dragonborn_ , did not do so. _You_ have made this homestead into a thriving, strong-walled, comfortable place -- a home, in other words, where your mother may retire in the state she deserves, and where you may play the gentleman or the warrior as you please.  It is all a marvel, and you stand at the center of it."

     Carver blushed.  But now that Cullen had pointed it out, he could see how things must look to anyone who hadn't lived it:  a family of foreigners making good with astonishing speed, in a notoriously xenophobic land.  "It's... not like that," he said awkwardly.  "I mean, yeah, but... Bethany sends money from the College.  Marian bought the land with the money from all those dragon bones she collects.  I buy the tools and building materials, yeah, and I guess I put it all together and..."

     "And protect it, and manage it, and see that your holdings increase."  Cullen nodded to him.  "That is a jarl's work, Thane Carver.  If other families should ever choose to come and stead nearby on this land which you have made safe and plentiful, they will owe you income.  If they ask you for aid and you keep them safe too, you may demand allegiance.  That is how all the holds of Skyrim began, at one time or another."

     Carver snorted.  "Don't want to be a jarl.  Too much sitting about, listening to wankers talk."

     Cullen laughed.  It was a good laugh, soft like the rest of his voice but rich and low and real, and it made Carver feel warmer to hear it.  "Well, perhaps you're more of a Nord than you look."

     "Talos' Beard, I _hope_ not."  Carver sat forward to stretch toward another bottle of mead, which was just out of his reach; his hair fell into his eyes as he did so, as it had been some while since he'd gone to Whiterun to have it cut.  "But I guess it _would_ be nice not to be so bloody cold all the time, if I was."

     Cullen shook his head and pushed a bottle closer to Carver's hand.  "You don't drink enough," he said. "Drink keeps you warm, or at least keeps you from noticing the cold.  And you don't have a beard, and you wear too many clothes.  I've noticed that about all foreigners in Skyrim, really -- you all wear too much."

     "Too much!"

     "Too much clothing makes you soft, my thane.  You rely on it for warmth instead of your skin and blood, and fiery thoughts."  He reached forward to brush the hair from Carver's eyes; Carver blinked.  "We Nords know many ways to keep warm in the cold, I promise you."

     "Uh," said Carver, his thoughts leaping to methods that involved the two of them curling together under a bearskin, with some oil and a lot of free time.  He was pretty sure Cullen hadn't meant it that way, anyway.  Pretty sure.  "Yeah."

     And then Cullen seemed to realize what he was doing; he pulled away, a bit jerkily.  "I can trim that for you, if you like, my thane."

     Carver winced.  _That bloody title._   "What?"

     "Your hair."

     "Uh.  No, thanks.  Have to take a trip into town anyway, so I'll take care of it then."  He sat back, and Cullen did too, and the silence turned awkward for a moment.

     Cullen shifted a little then, and probably it was Carver's imagination that he seemed less relaxed all of a sudden.  "You _could_ build a new hold," he said, returning to the perhaps-more-comfortable subject.  "That is what matters, even if you do not choose it.  And perhaps there are those in your family who would, where you would not?"

     Maybe the drink was making him slow.  Carver blinked in incomprehension.  "Oh, Marian?  Eh, she wouldn't want to be a jarl either."

     "Naturally not," Cullen said.  "And she would have no need to fill the role herself, with you here to handle the particulars on her behalf."  Which sounded... weird.  Carver frowned.  "No doubt her sights are set higher, in any case."

     "What, becoming a graybeard?"  Carver laughed at the idea.  "Hooking up with so-called High King Ulfric?  He's not her type, and she's planning to kill him anyway."

     Cullen shrugged, but his gaze was very steady, and he'd stopped turning the mead bottle in his hands.  "The Thalmor say you and your family are Septims by blood," he said, and Carver blinked in surprise.  When had -- oh.  Yes, he supposed the last set of Thalmor fools who'd come at them a few months back _had_ been yelling _Death to the Septim_ or something of the sort.

     "Eh," said Carver, drinking another swallow and shrugging.  "Mum's the something something great descendant of somebody who slept with Martin Septim, or slept with somebody else and said it was Septim.  But she married my father, and he was Hawke, so that's what _I_ am."

     "You could choose to be more."

     "Don't _want_ to, I said."

     "Your sister might.  If not for her own sake, then for her master's."

     And that was when, all of a sudden, Carver realized the conversation had turned into something completely different. 

     He frowned at Cullen, who'd stopped smiling awhile back.  "My sister doesn't have a _master_ ," Carver said, perplexed.  "And you don't know her if you think she might."

     Cullen's fingers tightened on the bottle of mead.  His face had grown very hard now; it was enough to tighten Carver's belly and make him wonder if he shouldn't stand up.  _To do what?_   "I don't know her," Cullen said, his voice abruptly harsh, "but I know daedra.  That sword she carries comes from one of them."

     "What, Dawnbreaker?"  It was a fine-enough sword, Carver thought.  Magic certainly, but if it was daedric it was rather _nice_ as such things went -- killing undead monsters and shining bright in the darkness, and all that.  Could daedra be nice?  "Yeah, maybe it does.  What's it matter, Cullen?"

     "It matters," and by the Nine, Cullen was turning red with fury, "because daedra are _evil_.  They do not grant their power freely; they _use_ mortals as pawns -- "

     "Wait a moment," Carver said, scowling, and mystified, and filled with a growing dread that he did not, did not, did _not_ want to accept.  "Wait just a sodding _moment_.  What is this, Cullen?  I mean... what the shit?"

     There was a moment of silence.  In it, Cullen's fury turned to something more like anguish and resignation, and then he sighed.

     "I am a Vigilant of Stendarr," he said softly.  Carver inhaled, and Cullen let out a heavy sigh.  "And I have been watching your family, these past six months, for signs of corruption."

     Carver stared at him.  "You mean -- "  He couldn't think, only feel numbness.  Couldn't converse, only blurt the words that popped into his head.  "You deceived me."  Had any of it been real?  The touches, the smiles, the -- had all of that been a _lie_?

     A muscle along Cullen's jaw flexed, hard, once.  "Yes.  I did." 

     Then he got up and walked out of the room.  Carver heard him trot up the steps to his room, then back down, and then the front door of the manor opened and shut.  When Carver recovered enough to get up and go looking, Cullen was gone.  His sword was gone from its rack, his travel-satchel from its chair -- he was _gone_.  For good.

#

     Carver hired another steward.

     He had his mother help with the process this time, and went to the jarl's steward with her list for a recommendation so they wouldn't end up with another spy.  The new man, Gregor, was stolid and reliable and efficient and boring as sin, but he was handy enough with a sword and shield.  He could be trusted to keep the steading safe on his own, for awhile.

     With that done, Carver kissed his mother on the cheek, donned his ebony armor and sword, then headed off down the road.

#

     The Vigilants were wary as they showed Carver into a small chapel-like room, bright-lit with a single shaft of sunlight from a high window.  Carver could guess why -- despite their stern talk of the vigil having no mercy to spare on the unrighteous, they were mostly a soft lot.  Unarmored, carrying swords that looked to have gotten only occasional use... no match for him, if he decided to show them how pissed he was about their intrusion on his life.  But that wasn't why he'd come.

     Instead he faced the other figure in the room, who knelt praying before the altar of Stendarr, and said, "So what'd you figure?"

     Cullen -- for it was him, Carver would know those shoulders anywhere, even in those hideous priest-robes -- jerked a little, and did not respond for a moment.  Then, warily:  "What do you mean?"

     "About my family.  You were watching us for corruption, you said.  What'd you figure, then?  Are we all two breaths away from becoming daedric thralls?"

     Slowly Cullen rose, and turned.  He looked more weary than ever he had been at Heljarchen, and far more wary.  "No," he said at last.  "After six months, I judged all of you wholesome.  There are... troubling signs, I suppose.  Your sister's use of a daedric weapon.  Your other sister, who dabbles with forces she cannot comprehend at the College of Magic.  And then there is you."

     "Me?"  Carver let out a humorless laugh.  "I haven't bothered to learn magic and haven't killed any dragons -- not lately, anyway, and not without Marian to help.  What, you don't think the daedra wouldn't just be bored by me?"

     Cullen's face tightened.  "You are my own sign of corruption," he said, and it was not Carver's imagination that his voice shook with emotion.  "My temptation from the path of righteousness.  Such a kind thane."  His mouth curved in a smile, but such a sad one.  "So handsome and strong and --  The things I crave of you..."  He inhaled and closed his eyes as if in sudden pain, and it took three full breaths before Carver understood that _Cullen wanted him_.  His mouth fell open, but Cullen didn't see.  "Those things... are base and unworthy of a servant of Stendarr.  They are unworthy of _you_ , my th -- Carver.  Forgive me."

     "You -- "  Cullen wanted him.  Cullen sodding _wanted_ him.  "You wa -- "  His voice squeaked; he had to stop and swallow.  "Shit."

     "Yes."  Cullen said this heavily, with the air of a dire confession.  "When I realized this... When you looked at me with such _betrayal_... I knew then that I had strayed from the righteous path.  I had built a trust with you, allowed you to rely upon a false oath, only to _use_ you.  It is a perversion of honor.  But I have no daedric influence to excuse me; this is all my own sin."  He sighed.  "And so I fled, like a coward.  But if you have come to call me out, I shall not refuse your challenge."

     Oh, by the Nine.  He thought Carver had come to _kill_ him?

     But.  He shook his head, and decided to get the most important matter out on the table first.  "One thing you need to get:  my sisters are _my_ responsibility.  And I'm theirs, too, always, and we all take care of Mother, but -- I'm the one Father told to look after them, when he died.  And I _do_.  You think I wouldn't notice if Marian lost her shit and started doing what some moldy old demigod wanted?  Or Bethy?  She's my sodding twin; you think I wouldn't _know_ if something was wrong there?"

     "Daedra are insidious," Cullen said, heavily.  "Dragonborn are especially susceptible to their influence."

     "Yeah, and a Dragonborn _stopped_ the Oblivion crisis, remember?"

     "Yes, and that too is why I left.  It was clear our order's fears would not be realized."  Cullen took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, facing Carver again at last.  "But I shall not apologize for my concern, Carver.  Dragonborn are not people like you and me.  They must always be _watched_ \-- for their own safety as well as that of everyone around them."

     "Yeah, I get that," said Carver, annoyed.  "And _I'm watching this one_.  We clear on that?"

     Cullen's jaw flexed, but after a moment he inclined his head.  "Clear."

     "Right, then."  Another silence fell, and Carver exhaled as the tension in his shoulders eased.  Now for the rest of it.  "You're not really my housecarl."

     Cullen blinked at the non-sequitur.  "What?"

     Carver stepped closer, licking his lips for nerves.  Sweet Mara, his skin was all-over jumping, but --  "You're not my housecarl.  You never made any oath to the jarl, or to me, did you?  Or if you did, you didn't _mean_ it.  It was just so you could spy."

     Cullen took a deep breath.  "As I have said, I will answer your challenge -- "

     "I'm not sodding _challenging_ you!  I just want an answer to my question.  You're not my housecarl, right?  And, and I haven't paid you for a month, so... you're not my steward either.  Right?"

     At this, Cullen had begun to frown, perhaps trying to fathom the trick in Carver's questions.  "That is true," he said, finally.  "When Balgruuf dispatched a housecarl to serve you, I followed, and when the man ran afoul of bandits and a saber cat...  I did not help.  I have asked Stendarr's forgiveness for that... but a housecarl who could not fight off a few brigands and a beast was no use to you anyhow."  Carver grimaced.  Nords were always so matter-of-fact about people dying in battle.  Still, Cullen was right; a housecarl who couldn't handle a little tiff like that was a waste of space.  "And since I knew our order was... concerned... about you and your clan, I took your housecarl's place."

     Carver exhaled.  "Right.  So... every time you followed my orders, you didn't have to.  You did it maybe to fit the role, but if I'd told you to do anything, uh, un-righteous... you would've said no.  And probably tried to kill me.  Right?"

     "That is true as well," Cullen said slowly, looking utterly confused now.  "Carver, what -- "

     "Cullen."  He said it sharply, firmly:  a command.  Cullen blinked, and Carver stepped closer still -- right up to him, close enough that he could probably gut Carver with that knife he could see on the altar of Stendarr behind them.  Close enough that they could throttle each other.  "Kiss me."

     Cullen caught his breath, shocked -- oh, but that wasn't _bad_ surprise in his face.  There, in the quick darting of his eyes over Carver's face:  yeah.  "Wh-what?"

     Carver swallowed and took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his pants and told himself _You're a Hawke, show some damned guts_.  "You sodding heard me.  If you were my housecarl, my employee, you'd sort of have to obey me or be forsworn.  But you're not, so... so kiss me."

     This close, he could hear Cullen swallow too.  "You mean -- "  Cullen stopped.  Blinked rapidly, then closed his eyes for a moment.  When he opened them, the hard look was back on his face, but there was nothing unpleasant about it this time.  He licked his lips.  "As you wish."

     Then he stepped forward, cupped Carver's face in his hands, and kissed him, with trembling gentleness.  He smelled of herby things again, and incense, or maybe it was herby incense, fuck if Carver knew.  The kiss was good as first kisses went.  Sweet.  Better than he'd had from lasses and lads in Cyrodil, because they were quick enough to tumble, but they didn't _want_ like Cullen wanted.  Like Carver wanted.  This kiss was a promise of better later, maybe.

     When Cullen pulled away, his eyes searching Carver's face with more than a little anxiety, Carver let out a held breath and nodded, not really sure what he meant other than, _Yeah_.  Cullen exhaled as well, shakily, and let him go.

     "R-right," Carver said.  It was hard to talk, but he made himself, because this had to be _said_.  "So.  Everything's out in the open.  You're not using me, I'm not using you.  Nothing _corrupt_ between us anymore.  And you know where I live."  Cullen's eyes widened; Carver took a deep breath.  "I guess if you want to stay righteous, you should stay away.  But, uh, if you don't mind doing something a little _unworthy_..."  _Please, please want to_.

     Cullen's expression grew pained.  But he nodded, and Carver nodded again unnecessarily.  Then it was Carver's turn to walk out, and he did -- but he paused on the threshold, and looked back, and hoped.  Cullen had turned to stare at the altar behind him, however, and did not say farewell.

#

     Carver got home to find a letter from Marian.  Amid the rest of the nonsense -- something about traveling into the Nord afterlife, which sounded almighty boring, like spending the rest of eternity in a noisy tavern, anyway she was probably making it up -- there was this:

     _Have you hauled that lovely housecarl of yours into the alchemy room yet?  You should, you know -- nice thick rugs, unguents and things, and the walls are sturdy enough that the rest of the house won't hear everything.  I've seen you mooning at him, and him mooning back.  I'd threaten to take him myself if you don't move -- sodding gorgeous, that one is -- but I don't think he much likes the look of me.  Odd, isn't it?_

     Perfect timing, as usual.

     The rest of the winter passed slowly -- slower than Carver had thought possible; slow enough that he suddenly understood why his original woodpile hadn't been nearly big enough to see them all the way through.  But as the fields of snow became patches again and the rabbits that he shot became less white and the mountains that he stared at were shrouded in clouds from melting snow, he stopped hoping.  It had been long enough.  His mother remarked on his gray mood as the weeks dragged on, and even Steward Whatsisname asked politely whether Carver wasn't ill, because if so he could contract an alchemist or maybe a Restoration-school mage to come and fix him right up.  "There's no curative for this," Carver told him, and maybe the man was less boring than he seemed, because he inhaled and nodded with a look on his face that said he'd had his heart broken once or twice too.

     But there was a steading to maintain and a manor to manage, and the cow still needed milking and the roof still needed repairing and the bloody wolves still needed killing, so he threw himself into the work and that was enough, mostly, to keep his mind off might-have-beens.  They ran out of firewood before the cold was quite done and he had to buy more, dearly since everyone was out of the seasoned stuff, and so he was in a foul mood as he went out to chop it one day.  Cullen would've warned him about the impending shortage in enough time to save him some coin, he felt certain, but Cullen was not there.

     He had stripped to the waist and gotten really into it, managing his breaths and tightening his waist and using his legs and not his arms or whatever, when the horse whickered and the cow made a surprised sort of snort and belatedly he realized there was someone behind him.  (They really, really needed a bloody dog.)  But he turned with the axe in hand and then just stood there, eyes widened at the sight of Cullen, satchel hanging loose, that little mournful smile on his lips.

     "I understand that you have hired a new steward," Cullen said, awkwardly.

     "Yeah," Carver said, catching his breath even though he wasn't all that winded from the wood-chopping.  He just couldn't get his lungs to work right, all of a sudden.  "He's, uh, he's all right.  Had to hire him; you were taking your sodding time coming back."

     "My apologies."  Cullen ducked his eyes for a moment.  "I... spent rather more time wrestling with my sense of duty than I should have.  The head of our order reminded me that, well... righteousness is served in many ways."  He licked his lips.  Then he reached up and tugged loose the neck of his tunic, hooking a finger under a cord there and pulling out --

     "Is that an amulet of Mara?" Carver asked, confused.

     Cullen nodded, his gaze very intent.

     "Why did you -- "  And then he understood.  Oh, for --  Carver set the axe and put a hand on his hip.  "You bloody, sodding _Nords_.  You don't just -- fucking -- how do you expect anyone to -- _fuck_."

     "That is not a no."  Cullen unhitched his satchel and took a step closer.

     "'Course it's not a no!"  The words were out before Carver quite thought about them, and then -- _shit_ \-- he blushed furiously.  "It's just... fuck's sake, Cullen, we've barely even --  Oh, Shor's _Bones_."  He rubbed at his head.  Why was nothing ever simple with these ridiculous bear-wolf-barbarians?

     "Is your head troubling you?"  Suddenly Cullen was close, putting a hand on his back in a solicitous way, and Carver started.  _Warm, his hand is so warm._

     "What?  I -- "

     "Have you been doing things properly?"  That Cullen was nervous was obvious in the way he swallowed, and in the tremor of his other hand when it pressed against Carver's belly.   _Oh, fuck._   But when Carver did not pull away, Cullen stepped closer, close enough that Carver could feel the heat of him, smell sweat and herby things and --  Dear gods, his pants were too tight.  Even though they weren't.  "Have you been doing things the Nord way, like I showed you?"

     It took Carver two tries to talk.  He turned toward Cullen, unable to help himself.  "S-so that I can..."  He had to swallow.  "Last longer."

     "Yes."  This time there was no mistake:  Cullen looked down between them, and licked his lips at the loose drape and too-obvious hitch of Carver's pants.

     Oh, _fuck_ this. 

     Carver grabbed Cullen's hand and turned, hauling him along sharply.  Cullen made a sound of surprise but did not protest, so Carver dragged him up the deck steps and through the manor's side door and the steward's bedroom to the alchemy storage room.  He shoved the heavy wooden door shut behind them.

     "Carver,"  Cullen breathed, and Carver nodded absently, advancing on him.

     Then the rugs were soft beneath his knees and Cullen was warm hard salt in his mouth and probably nobody heard a blessed thing when Cullen moaned and whimpered and finally pleaded aloud for Carver to torment him no more -- a request that Carver readily obliged.  After that he pulled Cullen down onto the bearskins, holding him close and licking the salt from his weirdly pale skin and yelping, then moaning, when Cullen's hand found the ache of his cock and eased it with gentle strokes.  That took the edge off; that slowed things down; so then Cullen took his time and undressed him slowly and kissed him _everywhere_ and murmured things like, "I have dreamt of this," and "Please, my love, please, I don't know what to _ah, gods_ ," and more.  Carver mostly ignored the babbling, fumbling one-handed into the chests that he knew contained unguents and things, and when he set to it _properly_ , Cullen's impassioned words turned to hoarse groans and grunts and finally one helpless, short shout of abject delight.  Which was sodding perfect, because Carver was yelling, "Fucking _fuck_ ," at the same time, and he didn't want to hear it later from Mother about his language if she'd happened to overhear.

     (He really hoped she hadn't happened to overhear.)

     Amid the warm, sticky tangle afterward, in which Cullen had somehow gotten a leg under Carver's back, and Carver had a leg between his, and meanwhile his head was pillowed on Carver's chest, Carver picked up the amulet of Mara where it draped across his belly.  "Sodding Nord."

     Cullen, his voice thick with contentment, rubbed his head a little on Carver's chest.  "Will you?"

     "Fucking marry you?  Fucking yes.  You didn't need this."  He tossed the thing aside and carded his fingers through Cullen's hair.  "You could've just _come back_ , and just _lived here_ ; that's all marriage is, anyway."

     "It would not be proper," Cullen began, and Carver sighed and pinched his ear.

     "Shut it.  I said yes, 'cause I know you're all _righteous_ and whatnot."  He yawned, praying someone would warn the steward before he came back this way and wondered why the storage room doors were closed.  "We'll have to go all the way to Riften, though; no Temple of Mara in Whiterun."  He lifted his head to glower down at Cullen.  "And _you_ get to tell my mother and apologize for lying about who you were, and all that."

     "Yes, my love."

     That was rather nicer than _Yes, my thane_.  Carver bit his lip so he wouldn't smile.  But then Cullen stirred again and looked up at him.  "Are you truly happy with this?" he asked, his eyes dark with worry.  "In spite of everything?"

     At this, Carver could not help smiling.  He reached up then, as he had longed to do, and drew a thumb around the edge of Cullen's neat beard.  "Yeah.  You've driven me 'round the bend and back, but... yeah."  He sighed and sat up for another kiss.  Cullen complied readily, and with an eagerness and renewed hunger that boded well for the immediate, unguent-slathered future.  Carver grinned as they parted.  " _Gods_ , yeah, I'm happy."

     "As am I."  Cullen bent to brush his lips along Carver's collarbone, and when Carver shivered all over -- not at all with cold -- there was something decidedly un-righteous in Cullen's eyes as he lifted his eyes.  "It is drafty in here, is it not, my love?  Shall I show you another way we Nords keep warm?"

     It was hard to talk all of a sudden.  "Yeah," Carver replied, shakily.  "I'd, ah, like that."

     Cullen nodded and leaned in close, until his lips brushed the lobe of Carver's ear.  "As you wish."  Then he proceeded to do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when my days at work are full of stress and I blow my evenings playing Skyrim: I try to write porn and instead it turns into crackfic AU crossovers. Naturally my favorite part of Skyrim has squat-all to do with finding the Dragonborn's destiny or resolving the civil war -- I actually hate the game's plot and characters -- but instead building a pretty little house on a lovely tundra plain beneath the dancing northern lights. If I'd bought the Hearthfire DLC first, I never would've bothered with the rest of the game. (As it was, I'd already gotten to something like level 60 and had so much cash I built the whole steading overnight.)
> 
> For the un-Skyrim'd among my readers: relationships in the game are laughably simplistic. Wear an amulet of Mara, and complete strangers will perk up and go, "Is that an amulet of Mara?" and immediately propose marriage -- do not pass first date, do not engage in sample nookie, just straight to lawfully wedded cohabitation. For the be-Skyrim'd, I suspect Carver will be the one to bake the homecooked meals in this relationship. Cullen's been in the equivalent of a monastery for violent ascetic fanatics (just like the Templars!), so I doubt he'd know how. Also: yes, I know the Dragonborn's not a Septim; I just did that to explain why the Thalmor and Vigilants might be after them.


End file.
